


Can I be Close to You?

by multiplelizards



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Hanahaki Disease, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:13:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27706759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/multiplelizards/pseuds/multiplelizards
Summary: Geralt's been dealing with Hanahaki for a while. Jaskier comes down with it, too.OR, what happens when you're in love with your best friend and your best friend (apparently) falls for another?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 88
Kudos: 642





	Can I be Close to You?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xxenjoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxenjoy/gifts).



> This is all witcher-and-his-bard/xxenjoy's fault. Hope it's everything you were thinking of, darling!
> 
> Song title from [Bloom by The Paper Kites.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8inJtTG_DuU&ab_channel=thepaperkitesband)
> 
> EDIT: There is now a BEAUTIFUL title card, made by the very talented [PetrificusTotaluss](https://petrificustotaluss.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!! Thank you again, darling!

Witchers don't _love_. They may feel more emotions than they let on, may be fond of people and places and animals, but they don't _love_. Not like humans do. Hanahaki isn't something witchers _get_.

Except Geralt is, once again, proving to be a very stunning exception to every witcher rule.

It doesn't happen all at once. A cough here, a shortness of breath there. It starts after the fiasco with the djinn, when Geralt realized he really _would_ do anything for his bard. As he parts with Jaskier in the fall and treks up the mountain pass to Kaer Morhen, he knows _something_ is off, but _what_ , he doesn't know.

He spends a long winter mostly normally. There's training and chores and long nights playing gwent. He still feels a little breathless, sometimes, but it's not getting worse, so he doesn't really _think_ about it.

He coughs up the first petal on his way down the mountain that spring. It's delicate and butter yellow and just like that, everything slots into place. Hanahaki. Buttercups. _Fuck_.

\---------------------

Hanahaki is a slow death, everyone knows. How beautiful, to love so deeply, so completely that it consumes you. How tragic, for that love to be unspoken, unreturned. The poets, the romantics, _love_ Hanahaki. It's the physical embodiment of that which they wish to put into words.

Geralt thinks it's fucking annoying.

For the few years following that first petal, it's...almost okay. He coughs, sometimes. His chest hurts, sometimes. He can't quite catch his breath, sometimes. But it's all rather rare. Jaskier hardly even _notices_ , even when he's discreetly coughing petals into his fist. It hurts. It's fine.

Gradually, the coughing becomes normal. The petals get more common. It's no longer a single petal, but multiple ones. Partial blooms. Whole buds. He may be able to conceal the little buttercups still, but he won't be able to hide the illness from Jaskier much longer.

His chest hurts near constantly, the spring he comes down the mountain and _knows_ Jaskier will find out. He'd been unable to keep it from Eskel this year and the _look_ he'd given Geralt had been...painful. Upsetting.

_Tell him_ , he'd said, _don't make me lose another brother, Geralt. We can't do this without you_.

They'll have to, eventually. There's no way Jaskier could ever love him, not like this, not like Geralt loves him--this fragile, delicate thing in his chest, slowly being consumed by flowers. Geralt wouldn't ask that of him, anyway, to love a monster.

\---------------------

They meet up on the path at a no-name village at the base of the Blue Mountains, like always. He's nervous this year--he doesn't want to see the look on Jaskier's face when he finds out, doesn't want the pity he's sure will be there in his gaze. Just thinking about it makes his chest hurt, fills him with a flutter of panic.

Jaskier's already got a room at the inn, as he usually does when he beats Geralt to the little village. Geralt knows because as he'd come in, the innkeep had tipped his head towards the stairs with a smile and Geralt had thanked him, ordered their dinner, and ascended the stairs with a curling warmth in his chest. The minute he smells Jaskier's blood on the air, that warmth turns to ice.

"Jaskier?" He's already pushing the door open and marching in, muscles tight with tension. He's not sure what he's expecting, but finding Jaskier bent over a bowl, vomiting tiny white flowers, hands shaking, isn't it.

Conscious thought clatters to a stop even as he steps forward, slips a gauntleted hand into Jaskier's hair to hold the fringe out of his eyes as he heaves, tears running down his cheeks. He hears his own voice as if from under water shushing and soothing, free hand rubbing gently at Jaskier's back.

When the fit seems to have passed, Jaskier shoves the bowl of bloody flowers away, leans heavily against Geralt's chest, breathing ragged. Geralt wants to ask so many questions. Instead, he waits, holds him upright, lets his breathing calm, lets him wipe the tears from his eyes.

"Ask," Jaskier rasps, not moving.

"Hm?"

"You want to ask, ask." He sounds so, so tired. Geralt wants to bundle him up in his cloak, take him back up the pass to Kaer Morhen, tuck him into his bed. There are so many reasons why he can't do that, but gods does he _want_ to.

"How long?" Hanahaki's a slow disease. For Jaskier to be hacking up whole little buds, tiny unfurled flowers? This is advanced.

The smile Jaskier gives is sharp and painful. His teeth are bloody. "Six months," he says. And that's...that's _too_ fast. It would have started just before the harvest festival and...fuck. Jaskier had been a little too pale, a little too quiet, hadn't he? Had Geralt really missed this?

"Jaskier--"

"I know," he cuts off, finally pushing out of Geralt's hold, crossing the room to the water pitcher. "I know. It's--I've always been one to fall hard, you know?" He does. "And by the time I realized, well--" he shrugs.

He watches as Jaskier rinses his mouth out, spits the now pink water into the ruined bowl, overly casual, and realizes...he can't do this.

"Who is it?" he asks, because he is not about to watch the man he loves die. Everyone loves Jaskier. Whoever this is the bard is pining for? They'll love him back. He's sure of it. They'd be a _fool_ not to.

Jaskier stiffens. "I'm not--Geralt," he sighs hard, doesn't turn around. "Geralt, I'm not going to tell them. It's--it would upset them. It's fine."

" _No_ ," he grinds out, "it's not fine." He presses up into Jaskier's space, spins him with a hand on his shoulder. "I refuse to watch you _die_ , Jaskier."

The look he gives him is painful in its hopelessness. It doesn't belong on his face, makes Geralt's chest tight. He can feel the tickle of a cough in response, thinks about how poorly timed a coughing fit would be right now and suppresses it, only just. "Geralt," Jaskier says, voice patient and still a little raw, "They won't love me back. Telling them would only hurt both of us. It's...I'd be okay. Dying for them."

"You shouldn't have to," he says, voice gravel rough.

"It is what it is, Geralt," he sighs, "I just--I just want us to have a _normal_ year, okay? Just a normal year." Geralt hears what he isn't saying. _I won't make it to the next one._

\---------------------

Despite his reservations, Geralt lets Jaskier talk him into setting out on the path. _A normal year_ , despite the fact nothing about this is normal.

Those differences make themselves known long before the end of the first day. Geralt quickly realizes that Jaskier's lung capacity has been greatly diminished--he struggles to keep up with Roach at even the most relaxed pace, needs frequent and long breaks. Geralt's tempted to offer Jaskier his spot on Roach's back but he has a feeling the offer will be ill-received. _A normal year_ would not involve Geralt catering to Jaskier's wants or needs.

Instead, Geralt deliberately slows their pace, takes frequent breaks, and _doesn't_ point out Jaskier's wheezing or the exhausted way he collapses at the end of the day, even though watching him push himself like this is painful. As if to add insult to injury, he isn't singing, either. He still carries his lute, but it's clear his lungs are too burdened to accomplish even the most gentle of singing. It's...upsetting. And Geralt can see how it weighs on him.

The only silver lining is that Jaskier's so fatigued he doesn't catch on that Geralt's not quite well, either. He's frequently passed out cold when Geralt has his worst fits first thing in the morning, buttercups coming up in clusters, stems and leaves attached. And if his voice is a little rougher, a little lower, a little more torn up? Jaskier doesn't seem to notice.

It takes them almost three times as long to reach the next town as it should and it's making Geralt jittery. There's no contract posted, but Jaskier looks _bad_ and Geralt's worried. His own chest is overly tight, his own breathing much shallower than normal, but it doesn't matter when Jaskier looks ready to faint on the spot, too pale, too quiet. He spends the last of his coin from the previous fall on a room and a meal and hopes a day's worth of rest will be enough.

\---------------------

"Geralt? Do you have a contract?" Jaskier asks the next morning from where he's curled up in the single bed, groggy and hardly awake.

"No."

"Uh, okay...?" Jaskier yawns, which devolves into a coughing fit. Geralt's head snaps up from where he's sitting with his steel sword balanced on his knees, partially meditating. He's about to cross the room and do...something when Jaskier holds up a hand in placation. Geralt stills, watches with a sick feeling in his chest as Jaskier coughs and coughs and _coughs._ It subsides only when he spits out another fistful of tiny jasmine flowers into his hand, collapsing back on the bed.

"Okay?" Geralt asks, can hear the tightness in his own voice.

"Mm-hm," Jaskier groans, sounding anything but.

Geralt takes a deep, steadying breath in preparation to start the argument again-- _who is it, Jaskier? Let me help you_ \--but Jaskier starts talking again before he can.

"Why'd you let me sleep in if there's no contract?" He sounds like he's been gargling with rocks. Geralt watches as he thrusts the balled-up fist of flowers over the edge of the bed, lets the bloody, torn things drift to the floor. They look the way Geralt feels--ruined, discarded. His own chest _aches_.

"You need the rest," he says. Jaskier tenses. Geralt _knows_ it's the wrong thing to say but it's the _truth_.

"I don't need you to _baby_ me, Geralt. You've never cared before."

_That's not true_ , he thinks but doesn't say. He cares so, so much.

"Jaskier--"

"No," he cuts Geralt off, pushing up onto an elbow to level him with a look that cuts like a knife, "you don't get to do this to me. I _choose_ this, Geralt."

"I--"

"This is where I want to be. On the Path." The _with you_ goes unsaid, but Geralt can feel it hang in the air, the shape of it. He sucks in a breath that catches in his throat, throws him into a coughing fit.

"Geralt?" The worry in Jaskier's voice, the sudden tone shift, is painful. He wants to reassure him, but he's choking on buttercups and blood, stems and leaves. He hears him rise from the bed, stumble over beside him. Gently, Jaskier shifts his sword out of the way, sets it aside. He runs his hand down Geralt's back in a soothing gesture. "Geralt, what's--?" He spits the first of the flowers, still hacking. Jaskier goes very, very still. The hand on his back slows before balling into the fabric, grip tight.

"Ask," Geralt rasps between coughs, an echo of Jaskier's own words a few weeks prior.

"How long." His voice is hauntingly devoid of emotion. Geralt coughs again, chest aching as he brings up another bloody bouquet. He pants through it, gasping for air.

"Since the djinn," he breathes out weakly. Jaskier makes an _awful_ noise.

"Oh, that's--" he cuts himself off, makes that same strangled little sound in the back of his throat again. "That's a long time," he says finally. He thinks Jaskier sounds strange, but his head is spinning from the lack of oxygen and it's hard to tell.

He doesn't respond, just focuses on calming his breathing. He doesn't want another coughing fit if he can help it. The back of his neck feels hot and he knows he's flushed with both exertion and embarrassment.

"I didn't know witchers could get Hanahaki," he says, voice still a little off.

"We don't," Geralt answers. His throat feels on fire, his chest hurts like he's been thrown around by a leshen.

"You do," Jaskier says slowly, "apparently."

"Hm."

It's silent for too long. Geralt finds himself staring blindly at the bloody little buttercups. This is it. Jaskier _has_ to know.

The bunched fist in the back of his shirt eases, carefully. Too carefully. Geralt feels the strain in it. "We need to go see Yennefer," Jaskier says. His voice is also too careful. Carefully controlled, like it usually is when he's performing. Or putting on an act.

"Okay," Geralt agrees. He knows what Jaskier must be thinking--mages can cure Hanahaki, sometimes. It's...painful. Awful. Not something most people _want_. It's ripping a part of yourself away, the part that loves. Geralt's terrified of it, but he'll do it, if that's what Jaskier wants from him. He knows Jaskier must hate the idea of Geralt being in love with him, especially now that he's in love with another, no way to return it. Geralt's often been ashamed of feeling too much, but this is...worse.

"She'll fix this," Jaskier says, and Geralt can smell the salty tang of unshed tears in the air, "she'll fix this."

\---------------------

They spend the rest of the day at the inn. Geralt knows Jaskier's upset, but at what exactly, it's hard to say. He’ll hardly look at Geralt for more than the briefest glances and keeps himself well outside of casual touching distance, which is strange for the normally tactile bard. He's either upset Geralt kept this secret from him, or he's upset Geralt's in love with him. Probably both.

Despite the distance he seems to be forcing between them, he bullies Geralt into bed beside him for the second night, doesn't let him meditate or sleep on the floor as he'd planned.

"Geralt, I _know_ mornings with this are worse when you sleep on the floor. Sleep on the fucking bed."

"What happened to 'don't baby me'?"

" _Fuck you,_ witcher. Get your ass on the bed. And don't hog all the sheets."

They settle, finally. Geralt lays on his back, staring up at the ceiling, trying not to be hyperaware of Jaskier, curled on his side, back to him.

He dozes off, eventually, to the quiet wheeze of Jaskier's breath, a bubble of anxiety in his chest.

\---------------------

He wakes an indeterminate amount of time later to find the bed beside him empty and cold, the tremble of suppressed sobs and the salty tang of tears on the air. He lays very, very still.

"--'s not fucking fair," Jaskier gasps, sucking in a harsh breath that turns into a hiccupping little sob. " _Fuck_."

Geralt listens to the hitched breathing that turns into a round of coughs, the wet, hacking sound of little snow-white flowers leaving Jaskier's lips. The way he tries to muffle the sobs, the coughs, with a hand over his mouth. Geralt feels _cold_. He _hates_ that he's done this to Jaskier, made him this upset. He wishes he could take it back, keep this awful, painful love to himself. Jaskier shouldn't suffer because he can't return what Geralt feels.

After the third coughing fit in the last fifteen minutes, Geralt gives up the pretense of sleep and rouses, rises from the bed.

"'m sorry," Jaskier croaks when Geralt rubs his back, pours him a glass of water from the pitcher. It hurts that Jaskier thinks he needs to apologize. This isn't his fault, after all.

"Back to bed. We've still got a few hours." Jaskier follows, quiet and subdued. He's exhausted, eyes red-rimmed and cheeks still wet.

They settle, that sliver of space between them as always. Geralt's just starting to drift when--

"Geralt?"

"Hm?"

"Um--" he trails off. Geralt cracks his eyes open, tips his head to look at Jaskier. He looks miserable. Tired. "--nevermind."

"What do you need, Jask?" he asks, quiet.

"Hold me?" he whispers, eyes fixed firmly on the edge of the sheet. Geralt's heart clenches. "I know it's not fair to ask that of you, but--"

"Come here," Geralt says, voice rough. Jaskier shuffles over, awkward. Geralt curls his arm around Jaskier's back, tugs him over so his head rests on Geralt's chest, ear pressed just above his too-slow heartbeat. He settles his hand on the curve of Jaskier’s hip, tries not to enjoy holding him too much--it’s about comfort, not Geralt.

They're still and quiet for a beat. "Thank you," Jaskier mumbles, voice thick with something Geralt can't name. "I know it's not--just. Thank you."

"Shh. Sleep."

They do.

\---------------------

They leave the inn bright and early, after only a single round of awful coughing on Geralt's part. Jaskier's stiff and rigid, watching him hack up the flowers, and Geralt hates that Jaskier _knows_. This was so much easier to bear when there was still a ghost of a chance he returned Geralt's affections. Now--

"So how are we going to find her?" Jaskier asks, during one of the numerous breaks early in the morning.

"We're not," he says. Jaskier opens his mouth to protest, brow pinched in unhappiness. Geralt speaks again before he can get the words out, "We're going to see Triss. She'll know how to find Yen."

"Oh," he deflates. "Don't you, I don't know," he gestures vaguely, "have some magic way of getting ahold of her?"

"A xenovox?" He asks. Jaskier makes a 'whatever' kind of noise that makes Geralt's lips twitch in the ghost of a smile. "No. Triss does, though."

"Ah." He doesn't looks _happy_ , per se, but-- "Okay."

\---------------------

"Yes, I can get ahold of her for you," Triss says when they track her down. She's still in Temeria, still serving the king. "Or at least, I can leave her a message. She doesn't much care for answering, usually," she laughs.

"Hm." That sounds like Yen.

"Tell her it's urgent," Jaskier pipes up, expression pinched.

"Is there anything I can do? If it's urgent, I mean."

Triss might actually be the better option, Geralt thinks, if he wants this love torn out of him. She's a healer; he knows first hand she has quite the skill. He could--

"No," Jaskier's already shaking his head, "we appreciate your offer, Triss, darling, but it's got to be Yennefer." His voice is strained. He coughs, a tiny thing he suppresses with difficulty. Geralt can hear him holding his breath to stave off the fit.

"Yes," he agrees slowly. He's...not sure why Jaskier's so insistent on it being Yennefer. They don't even _like_ each other, and he's always liked Triss well enough. "Sorry, Triss."

She corners him before they leave. "He's not well." She'd obviously taken notice of the coughing.

"I know."

"I can--" she winces, gestures vaguely. She's offering to tear it out, the love. He knew she'd be the better bet.

"You can ask him, Triss, but I don't think he wants that. He told me he was...okay. Dying for them."

She makes a strangled noise. "Geralt--"

"We're not talking about it."

She's quiet for a long time. "At least take this." She shoves a bottle of something dried at him, "it won't fix anything long term, but it will help. Mix it with some tea." He takes the little bottle, tucks it into his things.

"Thank you, Triss."

\---------------------

Geralt's still trying to figure out where to go from here when Yen tracks them down at an inn they've been staying at a few weeks later. He's just finished an easy drowner hunt and they're planning to pack in the morning. The dried herbs from Triss have helped, but they're not a miracle cure. And Jaskier refuses to take them unless Geralt does too.

"Now _what_ about this is urgent?" she asks, stepping out of the crowd to settle at their table beside Jaskier without invitation. The bard splutters, choking on his ale. It sends him into a coughing fit. His hand flashes out across the table and Geralt reaches back automatically, lets him grip him hard as he shakes his way through the hacking. Yen watches silently, eyes wide.

"Shh," Geralt soothes, slips up from his seat to crouch beside Jaskier when he doesn't recover quickly enough, hands still linked. They're starting to draw attention, so Geralt uses his bulk to shield Jaskier from the scrutiny of the room, "it's okay, Jask." Geralt doesn't breathe easy until Jaskier spits up the little fistful of bloody jasmines, panting.

" _Oh,_ " Yen says, voice strange.

"'M not--" Jaskier breaks off, clears his throat, grimacing. He flexes his grip around Geralt's hand once before letting go, "It's not about me."

"It _should be_ ," she says. Her gaze cuts over to Geralt, the look in her eyes hostile and reprimanding.

"No, Yennefer--" he starts, gaze jumping fast between her and Geralt, "can I talk to you? Alone?" Geralt startles, tries not to show it. Yen glances up at him where he's still standing.

"Go, Geralt. Your bard and I need to have a talk."

"Hm," Jaskier won't look at him, "I'll go check on Roach."

\---------------------

He takes his time brushing her down for the second time that day and forces his mind quiet, focuses on getting her hair all laying the same direction. He's...not trying to listen for the swirl of their conversation in the mix from the tavern. It just...kind of happens.

"Jaskier--"

"He knows and he doesn't feel the same, Yennefer. It's...fine."

"He's an _idiot_ , bard. Did you--"

"No, doesn't matter."

"Then why--"

"He's in love with you."

Geralt's focus breaks when his breath catches and dissolves into another coughing fit. The buttercups are painful little reminders, bright and beautiful, even splattered in blood. He gathers them up, tucks them into his pouch for a lack of anything else to do with them. Jaskier thinks he's in love with Yen? Why--

"Geralt," Yen hums, appearing as if summoned by his thought (she very well might be).

"Yen." He turns to face her, leans his weight against the door of Roach's stall. He's still a little short of breath, knows he looks a sight.

She sighs, long-suffering. "I'm only going to ask you this once--why do you think your bard wanted me here?"

He's...not sure what game they're playing here. "He's...unhappy. With me." Her expression pinches and he can tell she's hanging on to her patience with him by a thread.

" _Why?_ "

"Because--" he sucks in a deep breath, hates that he has to say this out loud, "--because I'm in love with him, and he's in love with another," he finishes quietly.

She makes an _awful_ noise, patience snapping, "And _how_ do I factor into that, Geralt?" She's _pissed_ , but Geralt's not sure who at, honestly.

"He wants the Hanahaki gone...doesn't he?" He can't help make the statement a question. Yen looks like she's going to strangle someone (maybe him).

"You're both _fucking idiots_ ," she seethes, "and I would normally _refuse_ to have anything to do with this but I promised your fucking bard, so--" she gestures viciously behind her, "lead the way to your room, witcher."

Geralt does, feeling like he's missing something.

\---------------------

When they make it up to the room they're renting for the night, Jaskier is there, looking drawn and highly uncomfortable.

"Yen, I told you I didn't need to be here," he mutters. He won't meet either of their gazes.

"No," she says, voice firm, "you do. Now, Geralt," she turns on her heel to face him, "the only way to get rid of Hanahaki--no, don't interrupt me, we're not doing that--the only way to get rid of Hanahaki is to confess your love to the person the flowers are for." He shifts his weight, gaze jumping to Jaskier whose eyes are still downturned, before settling back on Yen. "Who are your flowers for, Geralt?"

He feels breathless, like he might be about to have a coughing fit again. "I'm--"

"I _told you_ they're for you, Yennefer. Don't make him say it. Please."

"Jaskier, I told _you_ to _be quiet_ ," she snaps, "who are they _for_ Geralt?" Her gaze never leaves his, a sharp, angry challenge.

"They're not for you," he tells her. It's obviously not quite what she wants to hear, from the way her scowl deepens.

"You're fucking impossible," she tells him, the same time Jaskier makes a harsh little yelping sound. Geralt's gaze snaps to him.

" _Geralt_ , you can't--" he's scrambling up, crossing the room, "you have to tell her, Geralt, or you'll _die_. Don't make me watch that." The scent of his worry, his panic, is heavy on the air, sour milk and fruit gone rotten. "She'll love you back, Geralt. It's okay."

His chest hurts. It's only partly from the coughing. "Jaskier--"

"Geralt, where are they? Your little flowers?" Reluctantly, he pulls the little handful of buttercups from his pouch, not sure where she's taking this. "Jaskier, they're _buttercups_ ," she says, tone harsh. He just makes a painful little noise.

"I know," he says, voice strained, “It’s hardly fair, is it?” His tone is light but obviously forced. Yennefer sighs, changes tactics.

"Jaskier, who are your flowers for?" She asks, gentle. He makes another little noise.

"Yennefer--"

"Did he tell you what he thought you wanted? Why you wanted him to see me?" She doesn't wait for an answer, "he thought you wanted his Hanahaki gone, Jaskier. Ripped out. He was going to let _me_ do that."

" _What?_ Geralt, I wouldn't--why would I--?" There are tears brimming in his eyes, "I'd never ask that of you, Geralt. Why would you think I would?"

"Why do you think I love Yen?" he asks in return. Yen makes a disgusted sound.

"This is _enough_. Figure yourselves out; I'm leaving. _Don't_ have Triss call me again unless it's a _real emergency_." In the next breath, she's stepped through a portal. Gone.

"Geralt?" Jaskier's quiet question draws his attention back. He looks-- "Geralt, who is it?"

"Who else would it be?" he finds himself saying, "They're buttercups, Jaskier."

"I thought--" there are tears rolling down his cheeks, "I thought it was so cruel. For destiny to give you buttercups."

"I'm sorry," Geralt murmurs, reaches up to brush the tears away, "I know you don't--"

"You _idiot_ ," Jaskier laughs, a wet sound, "mine are for you, too."

Geralt feels the tightness in his chest fade, like heat leeching away in the cold. He hadn't realized how oppressive the blooms had become until they were gone.

He doesn't know what to do with Jaskier looking at him so full of love and relief. It's overwhelming and he can't help himself--he pulls him in for a kiss, slow and gentle, arms around his waist. Jaskier's fingers slip up into his hair, tilt his head to a more satisfactory angle. They only break when their lungs begin to burn, and then it isn't to go very far. Jaskier presses lingering kisses to his cheeks, his jaw, his throat. Geralt shivers.

"I'd always known you'd kill me, darling," he breathes. Geralt slips his arms a little more securely around his waist, presses a palm flat to the small of his back, kisses down his throat to the open vee of his doublet and the ties of his chemise, temptingly on display.

"'M sorry it took me so long," he says, voice low. Jaskier presses closer in his embrace, winds his arms around his neck. "I was so afraid--"

"I know," Jaskier cuts him off gently, tugs him up for another kiss, slow and unhurried. "I know." When they pull away, Jaskier cups his face in his hands, rubs his thumbs across the arch of his cheekbones, "I was terrified too, love. What a pair we make, hm?"

Geralt hums in response. Jaskier laughs.

"Love you too, darling." He says it light and teasing, but the flowers, the look in his eyes, belie how much he means it.

Geralt swallows hard. "You too," he says, voice rough. He clears his throat, tries again, "I love you too, Jaskier." It comes out a little stilted, but the look on Jaskier's face--

He tugs Geralt down into another kiss. "You're entirely too sweet," he murmurs against his lips. And well. Maybe it's not so bad, loving Jaskier when that love's returned. He presses him backward towards the bed, listens to the delighted burst of laughter Jaskier makes as the back of his knees hit the mattress and he collapses backward, dragging Geralt down with him.

No, it's not so bad at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on [tumblr](https://writinglizards.tumblr.com/).


End file.
